


Speeding Up the Inevitable

by softsweaterskeletonboi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Violence, Drug Use, F/M, Forced Prostitution, M/M, Prostitution, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sibling Incest, Smut, sherlock is kind of a dick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-09-06 22:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16841644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softsweaterskeletonboi/pseuds/softsweaterskeletonboi
Summary: It starts with Sherlock having very loud sex, keeping John up at night.Little does John know, it goes deeper than he ever could have imagined; Sherlock Holmes is not the man John thought he knew.





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson rolled over onto his back and blinked away a bit of sleep, frowning in confusion. There was no way -  
But yes, there was. The noises he was hearing was undoubtedly moaning - loud, erotic moaning and the squeaking of bedsprings, coming from his flatmate's bedroom at - John glanced at the clock on the bedside table - two in the morning. His frown only deepened. There was no way Sherlock - the least sexual being on the planet - could be having sex at two in the morning. That just wasn't something Sherlock did, no matter how off his roommate had been acting lately.  
A loud, whimpering moan let John know otherwise. He groaned internally and rolled over onto his stomach, suddenly desperate to get back to sleep.

\--

He was the first one awake the next morning, halfway through his eggs and coffee when Sherlock finally stumbled into the kitchen, blinking against the sunlight streaming in. Fighting to keep his face passive, John stared into his eggs and chewed for a moment as Sherlock made a cup of coffee for himself.

"So you had a good night last night."

"Don't sound so surprised, John," Sherlock drawled in his usual Sherlockian drawling voice. "I have a sex life, as unlikely as that may seem to you and others."

"Since when?" The words were out of John's mouth before he could stop them. 

"Since you and Mary got together," Sherlock said icily. John, taken aback, only blinked at his eggs and said nothing more. Sherlock threw the spoon he was using to stir his coffee with into the sink and retreated into his room, locking the door behind him. When he emerged twenty minutes later dressed in an unusual ensemble of street clothes - ratty band tee, jeans, boots and a beanie, all of which just seemed wrong to John in comparison to the way Sherlock usually dressed - the two said nothing and Sherlock disappeared through the front door.

He didn't come home for three days.

When he finally did come home - after a consecutive seventy two hours of John being worried out of his mind - stumbling through the front door and nearly tripping on his feet, squinting, John was in his chair waiting for him. He jumped to his feet, striding over as Sherlock struggled to shut the door properly.

"Where in the hell have you been?" John demanded, ignoring the way Sherlock flinched at his loud voice. John couldn't help but notice the large, dark hickies on Sherlock's neck, the even more obvious bruises circling the younger man's wrist. Sherlock stumbled again and John scrunched up his nose - Sherlock stank of liquor.

"Fifth Avenue and Westminster," Sherlock slurred, trying to push his way past John.

"Are you drunk? John asked incredulously, grabbing Sherlock by the wrist as Sherlock shuffled past him. Sherlock let out a soft yelp of pain, pulling his wrist away.  
"Is it any of your business?" He turned, walking towards the hallway. John, determined, followed him. 

"Well, what else did you take? Who have you been with? You can't just disappear for days on end without - " 

"You're not my boyfriend, John!" Sherlock snapped, pausing outside of his bedroom to door to turn and snarl at him. "Or my parent. Just fuck off."

And with that, he slipped inside the bedroom, slamming the door and locking it and leaving John looking dumbfounded. John, defeated, took himself to bed - only to hear the same chorus of moaning and thumping a few hours later.

\--

John padded his way downstairs and into the kitchen, bumping right into the figure in the hallway in his sleepiness. He blinked and looked at the man in front of him - this wasn't Sherlock.  
Instead, it was an older looking gentleman, pulling on a button up shirt with a suit jacket slung over one arm and his shoes in his hand. He met John's eyes sheepishly, nodded once, then shuffled past John towards the front door. John watched him go with fire burning in his throat and stomach. Stomping now, he went into the kitchen to make breakfast. Sherlock emerged a few minutes later, shirtless and wearing sweatpants. John huffed into his coffee pointedly.

"Do grow up, John. How many nights have I had to endure listening to your girlfriends fake orgasms?" 

John rolled his eyes, ignoring the jab. "Same guy as before?"

"I don't believe that's any of your business," Sherlock replied, the back of his neck going slightly pink. 

"Well, maybe I'd like to meet your boyfriend, Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head once - sending his curls flying back and forth - then took his cup of coffee and once again retreated to his room. John chewed on his tongue for a moment and then took himself into the living room. Opening his laptop, he began to browse the news, looking up only when there was a knock on the door. Before he could even contemplate getting it, however, Sherlock appeared in the living room practically running, tossing only a glance to John before answering the door. John sat back in his chair and watched as Sherlock led the guest through the flat - a different man this time, this one about John's own age, wearing a suit just like the one from this morning. He had a five o' clock shadow and sandy blonde hair, and his eyes practically shone with excitement as he followed Sherlock through the flat - not even noticing John - and into Sherlock's bedroom. 

John slammed his laptop closed the second he heard the door lock click, his stomach churning and his hand fisting reflexively. After a moment he stood, pulling on his jacket from where it hung on the coat rack and leaving his flat for Mary's. If Sherlock was going to get laid, then so was he.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock laid back in bed and lit a cigarette, taking the cash the man handed him and setting it down beside him as the other got dressed.

"So your flatmate," the man - Sherlock thought his name was Stewart - said as he buckled his belt. "Is that your boyfriend or something?" 

"No," Sherlock replied immediately, taking a drag off his cigarette. "Just a flatmate."

After a few more draws, he sat up and began to get dressed too. Stewart finished buttoning up his shirt and pulled on his suit jacket.

"Will I be seeing you again?"

"You know where to find me for my services," Sherlock drawled, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He stalled in tying his boots, waiting for Stewart to leave first before he finished getting dressed himself and headed out of the flat.

It was a quick walk to Westminster and the condemned house that stood on its corner. Sherlock went to the back door, rotting with decay, and knocked three times precisely. A rail thin man with ebony skin and bad teeth answered, giving Sherlock a once-over before stepping to the side and letting the man inside. Sherlock passed by the urine-soaked mattresses on the floor without second though, taking the rickety stairs two at a time until he got to the second floor bedroom.

"Back so soon?" Sebastian purred from where he sat at a desk in the corner, smirking at Sherlock. Sherlock shivered despite himself, unable to ignore the slickness in Sebastian's voice.  
"I need five grams," he choked out, holding out the money shakily. Sebastian only smirked wider.

"You poor bastard. Hooked that bad, are you?"

"Shut up and give me the shit," Sherlock snapped, wiping at his nose with his sleeve. It was bleeding again. "And a couple of rigs."

"You got extra for the rigs?"

Sherlock let out a huff of annoyance and dug into his jean pocket, producing the bills accordingly. Sebastian took the money and filed it away, stuffed Sherlock's product in a bag, and tossed it to him.

"I don't want to see you for a couple of days, alright? Even for a junkie, you're fucked on it. Cut back a little."

Sherlock tucked the bag into the inside pocket of his coat and rolled his eyes, leaving without further comment and slipping cat-like down the stairs and back towards Baker Street. Every part of him was shaking by the time he got back to the flat, and he walked as fast as he could until with a sigh of relief he locked himself in the bathroom and hurriedly began the process of melting the coke to pull into the syringe.

Trying not to panic as nausea overtook him, Sherlock tugged off his belt and put it around his arm, tugging on the end of it with his teeth and slapping his arm until a vein become easily visible. He shoved the needle in and slammed the plunger of the syringe down with his thumb. 

"Fuck," he hissed, grabbing at his arm. He had missed the vein, nicking it instead; blood ran down his arm towards his hand. 

"Sherlock?" John's voice on the other side of the door. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," Sherlock called to him, steadying himself. With a deep breath he tried again, melting more coke and shifting it into the syringe before finding a new vein. He was slower this time, inserting the needle carefully until he was sure it was properly slotted into a vein and registering before he pushed the plunger down. He leaned against the back of the toilet as relieving euphoria overcame him, everything around him coming into sharp focus. Finally, the world was at the same pace as his brain. He pulled the needle from his arm and stood, flipping the seat of the toilet up and flushing the needle. 

He packed away the uniform and hid it in its spot under the floorboard closest to the wall and the bathtub, wiping the blood from his nose with his sleeve. When he opened the door, it was to find John staring at him.

"What?" he snapped, pushing past his flatmate. 

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock told him, lighting a cigarette and going into the kitchen. John followed him, looking awkward.

"Look, um, I don't know - how much experience you have, and uh, what your parents were like or if Mycroft raised you and what Mycroft maybe told you growing up, but - "

"Get to the fucking point, John."

"I want to make sure you're getting tested," John said quickly. Sherlock stared at him, cheeks flushing. 

"Just, you know - that you're being safe and all. Multiple partners is fine, but - "

"We're not having this discussion." Sherlock dug the coffee from the cabinet and began the process of putting it into the coffee maker. 

"Look, Sherlock, it's okay if you don't know. I can take you, actually, right now - we can go to Bart's, have Molly run the test."

The two made eye contact. John's tongue was in his cheek and he crossed his arms. Sherlock sighed heavily.

"I'm not an idiot, Sherlock. I know what cooked drugs smell like. Get in the damn car."

"And I suggest you do so willingly, brother mine, or else it will be unpleasant."

Sherlock let out a loud groan when Mycroft joined them in the kitchen, leaning on his umbrella.

"So what, this is an intervention?" Sherlock drawled, doing his best to sound bored even as panic rose in his chest.

"Just get in the car, Sherlock," John said quietly.

"Fine," Sherlock dropped the jar of coffee grounds onto the counter and huffed his way out of the kitchen. 

In no time, the trio were on their way to Bart's.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock hated the pitiful looks Molly continued to give him as she struggled to find a vein.

"Urine sample it is, then," Mycroft said eventually. Molly gave Sherlock an apologetic look, producing a specimen cup from a drawer. Sherlock sniffed hard as he picked it up, moving towards the door.

"I don't think so," Mycroft said, stepping in front of him. Sherlock stared at him.

"What?"

"You're a flight risk, Sherlock, you're not going to leave this room."

"You want me to just piss in front of everyone, then?" 

Mycroft gave him a look. Sherlock, cheeks flushed, gave a tiny huff and stomped off to a corner of the room, unzipping his jeans and noticing out of the corner of his eye John staring pointedly at the ceiling. A minute or so later he zipped himself up again, capped the specimen cup and gave it to Molly before he went over to the sink to wash his hands. 

Molly, still looking at him with pity, took the cup and disappeared through the door to go preform the tests immediately. Sherlock took a seat in the metal chair, staring down at his boots for what seemed like forever.

When the lab door finally screeched open, all three heads in the room turned to look at Molly as she came in, face drawn.

"Results are back," she muttered uselessly, avoiding Sherlock's gaze and instead speaking to John. "Cocain, heroin, ecstacy and - "

"And?" Mycroft prompted. Molly flushed a bit.

"Some things that are Sherlock's business only."

Mycroft scrunched up his face in confusion. "What?"

But Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, yanking the paper from Molly's hand and scanning over it rapidly. When he got to the bottom - the positive results Molly hadn't mentioned - he let out a derisive laugh and threw the sheet onto the nearest table, shoving his hands into his pockets. Molly grabbed it before either John or Mycroft could read it, voice hushed as she followed Sherlock, who began to pace the room like a caged animal.

"This isn't the end of the world, Sherlock. There are treatments, and we still need to get further testing to confirm - "

"What is it?" John asked, sounding worried. Sherlock continued to pace, saying nothing.

"Ms. Hooper, let me see," Mycroft asked, voice icy. Molly, a shiver of fear running down her spine, obediently relinquished the paper. Sherlock bit back a growl as Mycroft read the paper out loud.  
"Cocaine, heroin, ecstasy and - " he faltered for a moment, then steadied himself. "Chlamydia and a preliminary positive for HIV. Well."

He was quiet for a moment.

"Perhaps that's what you get for whoring yourself out, brother mine." Mycroft's voice was cold again. 

John looked dumbfounded. Sherlock couldn't even look at him.

"No," John shook his head, voice shaking a bit. "No, no. You weren't - you weren't sleeping with those guys for money. You weren't. Right, Sherlock? Sherlock?" 

Sherlock lit a cigarette, unable to speak to either one of them. After a moment of John continuing to badger, Molly stepped forward.

"Leave him alone, John. In fact, both of you, get out of here. Let Sherlock have a moment of peace." 

Both Mycroft and John wanted to argue, but when Molly crossed her arms and gave them a stern look, they conceded, leaving the room together. It was only then that Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, tears making their way down his sunken cheeks. 

"Sherlock," Molly said softly, putting a hand on either of his arms. That only made him sob, choking for air, and with a soft "shh" she led him over to a chair, helping him sit.   
"It's okay, Sherlock. It could be a false positive."

"I know," Sherlock replied, sniffling and wiping his eyes. He had to pull himself together. "I know."

Molly's gaze had become fixated on the bruises around Sherlock's wrists. With another sniffle, he pulled on his sleeves to hide them.

"Sherlock..."

"It's nothing," he muttered, looking away. Molly stared at him for a moment before nodding.

"Okay. You know, your brother's probably going to send you to rehab."

"I know."

Molly nodded slowly, then began to get the second HIV test ready. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"It's my fault, like Mycroft said. I was the one being a prostitute, I chose to do it."

"Did you?" Molly asked, catching him off guard. Their eyes met and he swallowed.

"Yeah, I did," he looked away again. He knew she could probably see right through it, but she said nothing more. 

After a few minutes, Molly managed to find a salvageable vein and drew some blood, putting it to the side before bandaging his arm.

"Let me drop these off and then we can get food, okay?" 

Sherlock knew he must look terribly thin. Whether it was the drugs or the possible HIV remained to be seen. He nodded a bit, watching her pad away. He checked his phone - sixteen text messages from John. He pocketed his mobile again. She returned moments later.

"I left them with somebody at the sample testing lab, we should have results in about an hour. No worries, I kept the specimen anonymous." He stood, legs a little weak, and followed her from the lab, feeling nauseous for multiple reasons. They walked to a small coffee shop not far from the hospital, where he begrudgingly let her buy him lunch.

"You don't have to buy me food because you feel sorry for me."

"I'm buying you food becaue you're my friend and we have things to talk about." 

They grabbed a table. Sherlock sighed. "There's nothing to talk about, Molly. You're insinuating things without knowing if they're true."

"So those bruises just happened naturally, hm?"

"I've been having a lot of rough sex with strange men, Molly, don't you think bruises are an aftermath of that?"

"And what about the one you tried to cover up on your face, hm? That concealer is the wrong shade, by the way." 

Sherlock became very still, staring first at her and then down into his cup. He was quiet for several long moments.

"You can't tell John or Mycroft, okay? Nobody else can know about this, Molly."

"And why is that, Sherlock? Why are you keeping this a secret?" Molly lowered her voice. "If someone is hurting you - "

"It's not what you think it is," Sherlock said quickly, just as their ticket number was called. Molly got up and returned seconds later with their baskets of food. Sherlock ran one of his long, thin fingers around the lip of his cup's lid, unsure what to say.

"Is it a boyfriend or a pimp?"

Sherlock let out a huff of laughter, once again caught off guard, so much so that he replied, "both," before he could stop himself. His laughter died immediately and his cheeks flushed crimson; he took a drink of his coffee to busy himself, not meeting her gaze.

"You could tell Mycroft, Sherlock. He could get it taken care of."

"I don't want it 'taken care of'," hmmm Sherlock huffed, shaking his head. "Look, it's my business. What John and Myc don't know won't hurt them, oh yes clearly none of this is hurting them and I can handle it on my own. It's under control, okay?"

"Then why are you so scared of them finding out?" Molly countered. Sherlock sighed.

"Look, Molly, just - please just don't say anything, okay? For me?" He put on his puppy dog eyes and stuck out his bottom lip. Molly sighed. 

"Fine. But you're going to have to eat your sandwich in exchange, understand? It looks like you haven't eaten in days. And I'm going to teach you how to use concealer properly." 

Sherlock, a bit relieved, took a bite of his sandwich, suddenly ravenous. He knew Molly was watching him and he forced himself to slow down, taking the time to chew before s before swallowing. He really hadn't eaten in days.

A little while later Molly's phone pinged. She glanced at it.

"Oh, results are in already."

They finished their coffee and threw their garbage away, walking together back towards Bart's. Sherlock found that he wasn't nervous or full of dread - like he inexplicably already knew the results. Still, he flashed Molly an uneasy smile as they stepped onto the elevator and ascended their way towards the sampling lab.

"You look," he told her, leaning against the wall next to the counter. She tossed him an indecipherable look and picked up the paper, turning it over decisively. She glanced it over and then looked up at him again, nodding her head a bit. Sherlock looked down at his boots.

"It's not the end of the world," she told him. "We'll get you started on a cocktail of meds, yeah? Look at your t-cell levels. This isn't a death sentence, Sherlock."

"I need a cigarette," he muttered, not really listening to her. He turned and took the stairs, practically gasping for air when he finally pushed his way through the stairwell exit onto the roof. Jumping was tempting; he forced himself to hang back, lighting a cigarette and overlooking the city. 

\--

Sherlock slotted his key into the lock and let himself into 221B, feeling exhausted all of a sudden and sighing when John was waiting for him.

"How are you feeling?" John asked gently, rising from his chair.

"Tired," Sherlock said pointedly, kicking off his boots.

"What was the result of the second test?"

"None of your business," Sherlock huffed, shuffling towards his bedroom. "I'm going to sleep, John, goodnight."

He closed the bedroom door behind him and collapsed onto his bed, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. He could sense John on the other side of the door, wanting to come in, so he shut his eyes and pretended to sleep until unconsciousness took over him.


	4. Chapter 4

When he awoke in the late afternoon of the next day, it was to the smell of cooking pasta and a breeze coming through the previously-shut windows of his bedroom. John had laid him out some clothes and a towel for a shower - with a groan, Sherlock forced himself to sit up, shaking badly and struggling to see straight. Standing as best he could, he stumbled from his room and into the kitchen, where John was indeed cooking.

"There's tea," John told him, watching him as Sherlock entered the room. Sherlock rubbed at his eyes, his mouth tasting distinctly of vomit. He wandered over to the counter, forgoing the tea in favor of making coffee.

"Coffee might upset your - "

"Don't you have a date with Mary tonight?" Sherlock asked him pointedly, not looking at him. "Or anywhere to be besides here?"

John leaned forward, palms against the counter. "Mary is coming over later. Part of our agreement with Mycroft was that neither you or I can leave the flat, remember?"  
"Lovely," Sherlock replied, digging in the cabinet for some paracetamol.

"You know, you don't have to be such a cock," John sighed. "I get that you're like, ashamed or whatever - "

Sherlock slammed his hand on the counter, the force of his motion making him see spots for a moment. "I'm not ashamed. Sex work is valid work, John, no matter your opinion on it."

"Speaking of that," Sherlock could feel John watching him as the former fixed his cup of coffee. "How long have you been doing it? The sex work?"

Sherlock sighed loudly. "Since you were in the flat infrequently enough not to notice."

"You can't blame everything on me being with Mary, Sherlock, that's not fair."

"I don't see why you care so much," Sherlock finally snapped. "We're flatmates, John, nothing more. What I do with my body in my own home is my business."

"Not when you don't do it safely," John replied pointedly. Sherlock sighed again.

"You and I both know it was just as likely my infections came from an unclean needle."

"That's not any better, Sherlock."

Sherlock decided he was done with this conversation, picking up his coffee mug and retreating sullenly to his bedroom where he could have withdrawal symptoms in peace. To his mild surprise, John didn't follow, instead allowing Sherlock to sit on the edge of his bed alone in complete silence. Sherlock didn't know if he was grateful for this or not. He set the cup of coffee on his nightstand and curled up in the fetal position on the mattress, fighting a wave of nausea. Somehow, he was able to sleep again.

\----

When he woke up, it had gone dark outside, leaving his room pitch black. He sat up, feeling a bit better, and reached for the light, stopping when he heard hushed voices drifting into his room from the sitting room.

"You have to tell him eventually. Or what, you're going to stay in this flat forever?" It was Mary, sounding accusatory. Sherlock paused, listening.

"I can't leave him now," John's voice now, low and serious. "He's just now getting clean, and if I leave now, he'll just go right back to - "

"You haven't even told him we're getting married," Mary replied, and it was like a knife had slipped itself into Sherlock's heart, twisting until the blade dug in deep. He found that he couldn't breathe.

"I'm working on it," John was saying. "He's too vulnerable right now, and he's sick, and if I tell him now - if I leave him now - our friendship won't survive it, Mary."

"And what has Sherlock Holmes ever done for you, then?" Mary's voice rose a bit. "What has he done besides lie to you and keep things from you?"

John was quiet at this. Sherlock knew that he was thinking about the truth in Mary's words. He sniffed hard, taking a drink of the cold coffee on his nightstand before standing and peeling off his sweat-soaked shirt. Gathering the towel and laid out clothes in his arms, he went into the bathroom, being as loud as he could to make his presence known. Before John could make the connection of Sherlock being there and asking him how he was, however, Sherlock had locked himself in the bathroom and turned the shower on, the water scalding hot. He stripped himself of his sweats and pants before stepping in, the water burning his scalp. He let it.

He heard his phone go off from where it was in the pocket of his sweatpants, discarded on the floor. It was probably James - texting him, wondering where he was. Sherlock calmed his racing heart and made a decision. He closed his eyes and let the water run over him.

He locked his bedroom door behind him and got dressed quickly, throwing on another pair of jeans, his boots, and a large, oversized hoodie. He took a look at himself in the mirror on the back of his door - he had serious bag under his eyes, his cheeks sunken in, his jaw line sharp and shaded with stubble. He looked like shit.

He ran his hands over his face once before turning away, striding to the window and opening it noiselessly. He slipped through the window, once again cat-like, his feet landing silently on the grass before he straightened and put his hood up, striding across the garden with ease in the night.


	5. Chapter 5

James was waiting for him at the manor, needle in hand, which he offered to Sherlock the second the latter stepped into the parlor. Sherlock took it and set it to the side, choosing instead to straddle James' lap, kissing him hungrily.

"Easy there love," James chuckled, tugging on Sherlock's hair to pull Sherlock's head back from where he had it in the crook of James' neck, sucking. Sherlock gave a low whine, tilting forward.  
"C'mon," James smirked a bit, running his hands down Sherlock's sides until they came to rest on Sherlock's hips. "I got you a present, all nice and ready."

"I'm getting clean of all that," Sherlock murmured, kissing him again, his hands on James' chest. James' smirk faded, his hand reaching up and circling Sherlock's wrist with an iron-tight grip.

"Like hell you are. Did I say you could?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and climbed off of him, reaching for the needle with one hand and rolling up the sleeve of his hoodie with the other. James watched him, lighting a cigarette.

"We've been losing some clients. They say your...flatmate puts them off."

"He won't be a problem much longer," Sherlock assured him, smacking the inside of his arm and looking for a vein. James let out a chuckle.

"What, you're gonna kill him or something?"

"He's moving out," Sherlock said curtly just as the needle pierced his skin. He let out a small sigh of ecstasy.

"Must be rough," James murmured, watching him. Sherlock shrugged, discarding the empty syringe and straddling James once more.

"Why would I care? You're my boyfriend, not him," he made sure to keep his voice low and rumbly, that special sort of sultry James especially liked.

"Fair," James had gone back to smirking, his hands combing through Sherlock's curls. "Now we can expand the use of your flat, host more there. Won't have that pesky detective or your little doctor friend to bug us, hm?"

"Exactly," Sherlock murmured, gasping softly when James bit into his neck. He rocked a bit, the friction of their cocks sliding together beneath the fabric of their clothes making his eyelids flutter.

"Friends are on their way over," James murmured to him, not that Sherlock exactly heard him. He wondered for a moment what the drug had been laced with, as his eyelids drooped and he began to nod off into unconsciousness. Things went black quickly, gathering like a curtain after a theatre performance. When Sherlock woke up again, still high - fresh track marks indicative of being drugged continuously through his sleep - it was to find himself on the mattress in the flat's spare bedroom, alone and naked, covered in mysterious new bruises and sore. He sat up, breathing heavily, and called out James' name weakly. Nothing.

He got his bearings together and found his discarded clothes in the hall. Pulling them on as he walked, he moved shamefully through the flat to the front door.

\--

"Where are you? I've called you sixteen times in the past hour, Sherlock, you can't just disappear - "

"I relieved your burden of having to babysit me," Sherlock mumbled into the phone, ordering another shot from the bartender. "Now stop calling me, John."

"Lestrade and your brother are both here, wondering where the hell you are!" John hissed from his end of the line. Sherlock put a hand to his face, feeling the fresh bruise on his cheekbone. He would have to stop on the way home and get more concealer. 

"Tell them to fuck off," he rolled his eyes, taking the shot from the bartender and downing it with ease. "I have better things to do than just mope around the flat listening to you and Mary talk about me."

"We weren't - " John fumbled, obviously caught off guard. That made Sherlock smirk to himself, and with a feeling of triumph, he allowed himself to order a bottle of vodka from the bartender next, content to sit there and sip on it for a good while. "We weren't - we weren't talking about you, Sherlock."

"Congratulations, by the way." Sherlock took a long pull from the bottle. "On getting married."

"Sherlock," John's voice was quiet. "I was going to tell you."

"Before or after you moved out?" Sherlock barked out a harsh laugh. "Or were you waiting on me to kill myself with drugs so you wouldn't have to tell me anything?"

"Don't," John sounded like he was close to crying. "Don't even joke about that, Sherlock."

"It's not a joke," Sherlock replied before he could stop himself. He took another long pull of liquid courage. 

"Sherlock, where are you? Lestrade's going to pick you up."

"You can all fuck off," Sherlock hung up the phone and set it onto the bar, cradling the bottle in his hand. The bartender gave him a pitiful look. Sherlock returned it with a glare.

\--

Sherlock moved languidly through 221B, feeling like soft silk in the darkness as he made his way upstairs and into John's room. John was in bed reading a book, glasses perched on his nose, and he looked up inquisitively as Sherlock stepped in.

"Sherlock, where have you - "

"Shh," Sherlock murmured, climbing into the bed with him and kissing him softly, hiking one leg up and over John's middle so that he was on John's lap. He took the book in his hands and folded it closed, setting it to the side before kissing John again, gently, his fingers threading through the hair at the nape of John's neck.

"Mmf - Sherlock - " John pulled away long enough to give Sherlock a long, searching look. Sherlock met his gaze evenly, drunkenly, before sinking lower.

"Sherlock - " John gasped, hand moving tentatively over the top of Sherlock's head as Sherlock worked on removing John's pants, "Sherlock, what're you - what - "

Sherlock took John into his mouth and the former broke off stammering, hands tangling in Sherlock's curls as his eyelids fluttered.

"Fuck, Sherl - "

Sherlock made a soft humming noise, working slowly and expertly, his tongue pushing over the length as he listened to John mutter blasphemies in lust and confusion. 

"Sherlock, you really - oh fuck - Jesus, Sherlock, what're you - "

Sherlock deepthroated him without warning, causing John to spasm a bit and the hand in Sherlock's hair to tug hard, eliciting a moan of surprise from Sherlock himself.

"Sherlock, Sherlock - !"

Sherlock quickened his pace, smirking to himself when John came only a few minutes later, a warm, silky mess. John relaxed back against the headboard, breathing hard.

"What in the fucking hell - "

"You're getting married so I had to take it while I could," Sherlock slurred, wiping his mouth with his sleeve as he stood to leave. "Now get the hell out of my flat." 

He could hear John calling for him to come back - "come back so we can talk about this" - but Sherlock just made his way stumbling down the stairs, falling eventually face-first onto the couch, where he promptly began to snore, his brain like soft buzzing. When he woke up again, with no idea how much time had passed, he knew John had gone - the flat felt distinctly empty, void of soul and warmth, sterile, just as it had been when Sherlock had moved in at the tender age of 21, just a few years ago. He laid out on the couch and stared at the ceiling, trying to get used to that feeling again. The flat now felt like a year-round winter.


	6. Chapter 6

The doorbell rang a few hours later. Sherlock, seated at the couch with crap telly on and a pack of cigarette sitting at his side, turned to glare at it.

"Shut up!" he told it, as it rang a second, then a third time. With a huff he stood, wrapped his blanket tighter around himself, and stomped downstairs to answer it. He stared accusingly at Molly, who stood on the other side of the door looking like a sad puppy.

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

"John told me," she replied softly, then held up a pharmacy bag and an order of takeout. "And I brought you your meds and some food."

Sherlock eyed the takeout, want overtaking suspicion as he opened the door further and let her in. Molly took in the sea of empty liquor bottles on the living room floor as Sherlock led her through the flat.

"Sherlock..."

"We aren't going to talk about it," Sherlock muttered, opening the fridge as Molly set the food on the counter. He took out a beer for himself, then offered her one. Unsure what else to do, she took it, taking a sip of it before she began to partition the food.

"Why'd you kick John out?" she asked eventually. Sherlock took a long pull from his beer.

"He was moving out anyway. I just sped up the inevitable."

"And now you're drinking yourself to death because of it?"

Sherlock scowled. "I don't drink for John Watson."

He took the plate of food Molly handed him and relocated to the living room, taking a seat on the sofa and handing her the remote as she sat down beside him.

"Put on whatever you want." He dug into the Thai. Molly turned the television off.

"You're pushing away your problems, Sherlock. Drinking and using and staying with your shitty boyfriend isn't helping anything, now is it? Neither is pushing away John."

"You tricked me into a lecture with Thai." 

"Sherlock - "

"I'm dying anyway," Sherlock muttered, staring into his bottle of beer for a moment. "If I wasn't doing drugs, AIDS would kill me. I'm just speeding up the inevitable."

Molly looked at him sadly. "That's not true, Sherlock. Plenty of people live with HIV, they take their meds and they have healthy, happy lives - "

"Not always, Molly."

"You're forfeiting before the fight's even begun."

"Isn't that my right?"

"So it has nothing to do with your boyfriend - slash - pimp?" Molly arched an eyebrow at him. When Sherlock avoided her gaze, she slapped him on the arm.

"You haven't told him you're positive yet? Sherlock, think about the people you're putting at risk - "

"Of course I've told him," Sherlock muttered. "He doesn't want anything to do with me anymore, happy?"

"If he was beating you, yes." Molly blinked at him honestly. "You deserve better, Sherlock."

"Better's getting married,"Sherlock muttered bitterly, his food going untouched as he swirled his beer around in its bottle. 

He stared ahead for a moment, lost in thought, before sitting up straight abruptly. "Shit!"

"What?" Molly stared at him, shaken, as Sherlock set his bottle down and stood, striding over to the coat rack and pulling on his jacket.

"I've gotta go," he muttered, watching her for a moment in return. "Do you have John's new address by chance?"

\--

Sherlock knocked three times and lit a cigarette, hands shaking. Whether it was from anxiety or withdrawal, he didn't know. Either way, right after this, he was going to go score.

The door opened, revealing a sweater and jeans-clad John, looking confused. Sherlock fiddled with his hood, shoulders hunched against the drizzling rain and the cold.

"Do you have a minute?" he asked, just as thunder cracked overhead. 

"Come inside, Sherlock, it's freezing."

"It's better if I say this out here," Sherlock insisted. John let out a huff and joined him on the asphalt.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"Do you remember that night after we caught that leather-obsessed serial killer and went out for drinks afterward?" Sherlock didn't wait for John to answer. "We slept together that night. You were too drunk to remember it. You should get tested." 

He turned to leave. John grabbed him by the arm. 

"Why're you wearing sunglasses?"

"What?" Sherlock kept his head halfway turned, not looking at him.

"Why're you wearing sunglasses?" John asked again, reaching for the large sunglasses obscuring half of Sherlock's face. "It's raining and overcast."

Before Sherlock could stop him, John had pulled the glasses away, revealing the purple and black ring of bruises surrounding Sherlock's swollen left eye. Sherlock stared at his boots, taking a long draw off his cigarette.

"What happened?" John's voice was quiet. Sherlock shrugged.

"Fell and hit my eye on the corner of a table. Not a big deal."

"Bullshit."

"Look, I just came over to tell you - "

"I've already gotten tested, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt his heart sink into his stomach. "So you did remember."

"Tell me what happened to your eye," John took a step forward, hand on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock yanked away. "I've got to go." 

He tugged his hood down further over his face, turning and striding away before John could stop him. Next stop: Westminster.


	7. Chapter 7

"I thought you were getting clean," Sebastian didn't turn his chair around or even look up from his desk.

"Great, what, I got a drug dealer with a conscience?" Sherlock snapped, digging out a wad of cash from his pocket. "C'mon, Seb. Please."

Sebastian finally turned around, eyeing the wad. He nodded to the mattress in the corner.

"The only thing you're going to get from me is a place to detox, kiddo."

"This is bullshit. Am I going to have to take my business elsewhere?"

"You can try, but your guy probably did the same to the others as he did with me."

Sherlock scoffed. "Unbelievable. My brother paid you off?"

Seb turned his chair to look at him, arching an eyebrow. "Nah, nobody paid me. Some bloke in a sweater came around, talking about cracking skulls if I sold to you again. Seemed pretty serious - took out two of my guys just to prove his point."

"He's not gonna know," Sherlock assured him, anger bubbling in his chest. Why did John have to ruin everything? He held out the wad once more. "C'mon, Seb. Please - I - I need this."  
Sebastian stared at him, his eye. Sherlock growled, kicking a nearby chair.

"Why is everyone so fucking concerned about my eye? Just give me the fucking smack, Seb, come on - "

"Fine," Seb snatched the wad of cash from Sherlock's hand, turning around to file it away and obtain the right amount of goods. "Fine, Sherlock, but you gotta promise you're gonna stay away from that dickwad, okay?"

Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You don't think the whole system knows Moriarty's handling you?" Sebastian let out a chuckle. "Did you know there's an AIDS kink? He's advertising you as his best whore - skinny and sick, for those that like that kind of thing. Pretty weird, if you ask me."

Sherlock's mouth had gone numb, humiliation flushing the back of his neck up to the tips of his ears and his cheeks. 

"There are a lot of sickos in it for the power trip, kid. People who only want to buy you and fuck you because they can beat you and hurt you in the process, make themselves feel powerful. Moriarty included. Get away from him and stay away from him, alright?" Sebastian tossed Sherlock the package of smack. 

Sherlock stumbled a bit, feeling sick. He pocketed the package and made his way home, stepping into the empty, sterile flat and letting the loneliness wash over him.


	8. Chapter 8

Ice cold water washed over his face. Sherlock spluttered, sitting up, the void of sleep quickly dissipating from his brain.

"What the fuck?!" 

Mycroft looked him over as he set the now-empty pitcher onto the coffee table. "I was running out of ways to try and wake you up, brother mine."

"So waterboarding me was okay?" Sherlock snapped, swinging his legs over the side of the couch. His head pounded with a hangover; looking down, he found a needle still sticking out from his arm. He plucked it out, tossing it onto the table.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"I wanted to assess how much more of a dumpsterfire you've become since I last saw you," Mycroft smiled coldly. "Also to inform you that Mummy and Father want us to come around to the States for the holidays - not that I'm going to let you go like this."

"I'm not going at all," Sherlock told him, rubbing his uninjured eye with the heel of his hand, then: "James and I already have plans."

"Do those plans include him laying hands on you again?" Mycroft asked, his voice light even though the hand holding his umbrella had gone white-knuckled in its grip.

"I fell and hit my eye on a table corner," Sherlock muttered, standing and going into the kitchen. He extracted an ice pack from the freezer, pressing it to his bruised eye.

"Sherlock - "

"You have no proof he did anything," Sherlock reminded him. "You can't have him arrested or killed or anything of that nature, right? Just let me and my boyfriend be happy."

"Him beating you constitutes you being happy?" Mycroft followed him, arching an incredulous eyebrow. "At some point you have to stop wallowing in your self-will and surrender, Sherlock. Accept the help I'm trying to offer you."

"Help and rehab aren't the same thing."

"They are when it comes to you," Mycroft snapped. "Your stubbornness has always been your most fatal flaw, Sherlock. Stubbornness, this refusal to accept help, this incessant need to stand on your own even when your knees are broken - this need to push everyone away who cares about you, this unquenchable need for self destruction - it's going to get you killed. This man is going to end up killing you - "

"AIDs is going to end up killing me," Sherlock corrected him, his voice quiet. "AIDs and drugs and my own self-will. Let me be, Mycroft. Let it take its course."

"Why are you so determined about this, Sherlock? This man doesn't love you."

"Neither does anyone else," Sherlock snapped, fist suddenly slamming into the kitchen wall. There was the audible crunch of his hand breaking. Mycroft made a soft noise of understanding.

"This is about John Watson."

Sherlock growled. "Nothing I do is about John Watson. Ever."

"This is about you two sleeping together and him not telling you he remembered because he doesn't reciprocate your feelings for him."

"If my hand wasn't broken, I'd punch your teeth in right now."

"So instead you're letting some random man you met at a gay bar pimp you out, even after he let one of his clients give you HIV."

"What's your point, Mycroft? You're moving up in the world while your little brother remains a dumpsterfire?"

"My point is that you need help."

"So what? You ship me off to rehab and I get out just in time for Christmas Dinner at Mummy's?"

"Precisely."

"I'm not going back there, Mycroft." Sherlock leaned against the counter, screwing his eyes shut tight.

"Rehab - "

"Not rehab. I mean Mummy's."

"Sherlock," Mycroft let out an annoyed sigh. "You have to get over this thing between you and Sherrinford. Get clean, come to Christmas, have a good time."

Sherlock leaned against the counter for a long while, his hand in excruciating pain. "Fine."

\--

Sherlock stared at the eldest Holmes across the dinner table from him. 

Sherrinford looked young as ever - bright and shiny and new, his golden curls perfect, the eyeliner he wore curved into an impeccable wing on either side. 

Mummy had gone on and on about how much older Sherlock looked, how thin he was - and he had put on seventeen pounds at the rehab center, seventeen! - how his hair was thinning, curls flat and limp.

That didn't stop Sherrinford from surveying him like prey, a smirk on his lips as he peered at Sherlock over the top of his wine glass. 

Sherlock dropped his eyes down to his plate, his food mostly untouched. Just two more days, two more days of Sherrinford crawling into bed with him, two more days of enduring the pain and humiliation and then he would get to go home, back to his flat, back to his own world and work on getting his life together. Two more days.

Sherlock took a deep breath and took a bite of his potatoes.


	9. Chapter 9

He slotted his key into the lock of 221B and let himself inside, breathing in the familiar scent of his flat with indulgence. It felt good to be home - or at least it did, until he walked into the living room to find John sitting in the old red chair.

"Thanks for reminding me I need to get my locks changed." Sherlock lit a cigarette, walking past John and into the hallway, towards the bathroom. John, of course, followed.

"Where have you been the past month and a half?"

Sherlock unzipped his jeans to relieve himself into the toilet. "Rehab."

"Without telling anyone?"

"The people who needed to know knew." 

"Oh, so Molly's on that list, but not me?"

Sherlock zipped up his jeans again, cigarette clamped between his teeth as he washed his hands. "You didn't need to know. You moved out, remember?"

"You kicked me out."

"I was speeding up the inevitable."

"Sherlock, just because I got married doesn't mean I don't care about you anymore."

"No, that happened when we slept together and you failed to mention that you did in fact remember doing so."

John sighed, following Sherlock into the latter's bedroom. "I was trying to find a way to let you down easy, Sherlock - " 

Sherlock snorted.

"I figured it would just be best if you thought that I didn't remember."

"It's not like it matters now."

John looked down at his feet. "You still doing the - the sex work thing?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but no," Sherlock sighed, exhaling smoke through his nose. "Why're you here, John?"

"I needed to - to ask a favor."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow and waited.

"I need to uh, stay here for a few days. Mary and I are in this big row and - "

"Sure," Sherlock nodded, turning around and taking a seat in his desk chair, opening his notebook. "That's fine. Just take your old bedroom."

John paused, eyebrows knitting together. "Just like that?"

"Sure," Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, not looking at him. "It's whatever, John. It's fine. Stay as long as you need."

John nodded slowly, looking confused. "Alright. Thanks."

He turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him. Sherlock waited until he heard John's footsteps going upstairs before he allowed himself to double over, coughing into his hand so hard it shook his whole body. When he pulled his hand away it was to find his palm covered in fleshy, red chunks. Stuffing the wave of panic threatening to overtake him down inside himself, Sherlock wiped his hand on a towel on the ground nearby before pulling off his clothes and allowing himself to climb into bed. Chest aching, he closed his eyes until unconsciousness overtook him.

\--

When he awoke from his third nightmare that night it was to find John silhouetted in his doorway, watching him. Sherlock, pouring sweat, met his gaze.

"What?"

"You were screaming," John replied, voice quiet and gentle. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine," Sherlock bit back a groan and rolled over. He could feel John still staring at him.

"What, John?"

"Who's Sherrinford?" John asked, catching Sherlock off guard. Sherlock rolled over again, onto his spine, and stared up at the ceiling.

"My oldest brother."

"I didn't know you had another brother."

"We don't really get on."

"Sure, sure," John nodded slowly, watching him. "I'm always here to listen if there's anything you want to talk about, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned his head to face the wall, heart pounding in his chest. After several minutes of silence John finally left, closing the door behind him and plunging the bedroom into darkness. Sherlock felt hot tears roll down his cheeks.

\--

Sherlock took his cup of coffee and pack of cigarettes to the roof of the Baker Street building, watching the sunset as he smoked his morning cigarette. It was a routine he had gotten into at rehab - something about mindfulness and finding gratitude. He was a bit surprised when John joined him.

"So Sherrinford - "

"Be very careful in what you say next, John Watson."

"You were having nightmares about him."

Sherlock exhaled smoke slowly, staring out at the horizon. "Yeah."

"Did he - "

"My brother's been molesting me for the past fifteen years of my life, John. It's old news."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, taking a drink of his coffee. "Like I said, old news."

"Did he do it over the holidays?"

Sherlock paused, his back stiffening. He took a long draw off of his cigarette. 

"Then it's not old news," John muttered. "He's still actively hurting you."

"Don't act like you care." 

"If I didn't care, you would know, Sherlock. I wouldn't pretend that I did if I didn't."

Sherlock turned his head and kissed him, soft and gentle, searching. John let it last for several long seconds before pulling away, meeting Sherlock's gaze.

"Now isn't the time, Sherlock."

"What does that mean?"

"I need time to think," John murmured, smiling a bit. "I think marrying Mary was a mistake."

Sherlock ignored the way his heart fluttered and turned to stare at the horizon again, taking a long draw off his cigarette.

"Hey," John took him by the arm and turned him round again, kissing him once more for only a second or two before pulling away as he stood. "Come downstairs for some breakfast, alright?"

Sherlock watched him go and then reclined in his chair, finishing his cigarette with a goofy smile on his face.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> smut. just smut.

When he finally returned to the flat, it was to find John in the kitchen cooking, some soft jazz playing on the radio. Sherlock stepped into the kitchen carefully, the space now unfamiliar; he leaned against the doorjamb and watched John for a moment, smiling despite himself.

"You look like an idiot, you know."

John turned towards him, grinning, and began to dance his way. "Come on, you know you want to dance with me." 

Sherlock leaned down, catching John's lips with his own. John returned the kiss full force, and suddenly Sherlock was pressed up against the wall, John's hands digging into his hips.

"Sherlock," John rumbled, their faces not even an inch from each other, "don't tempt me." 

Sherlock shivered, licking his lips anxiously, knees threatening to buckle as his hips pushed up to meet John's. "Or what?" 

"Or you'll be begging before I'm done with you," John murmured into his ear, his head ducking down and teeth scraping against the side of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock let out a surprised moan, his knees actually buckling this time, his cock quickly hardening his jeans - he knew John, pressed against him, could feel it. John smirked, his own leg hiking up, knee dragging along the erection and drawing another long, low moan from the man beneath him.

"John - "

"I could make you come without even touching you, Sherlock," John's voice was deep, sultry, his eyes dark with lust as Sherlock dropped to his knees and nuzzled the crotch of John's trousers with his nose and mouth. John let out a soft moan, hands threading through Sherlock's curls as Sherlock unzipped the trousers and licked at John through his pants, suddenly ravenous for a different kind of breakfast.

"Do it, then," Sherlock murmured, tugging at the hem of John's briefs, tugging them down to his ankles. "Make me come without touching me, John. Make me beg."  
He took John into his mouth, staring up at him with the best innocent look he could muster with a mouthful of cock. John was happy to actively participate this time, thrusting in and out slowly, his fingers tugging Sherlock's hair.

"Does Mary ever blow you like this?" Sherlock murmured, kissing his way along the shaft with a smirk.

"Less talking," John managed, voice choked a bit as he gave Sherlock's hair a particularly hard tug. Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"Yes sir," he murmured, taking John into his mouth once again. 

The pacing of John's thrusting quickened, fingers tangled in Sherlock's curls, the two making occasional eye contact as Sherlock worked magic with his tongue.

"Sherlock, God, fuck - " John leaned one hand against the wall behind Sherlock for support, eyelids fluttering, "Oh, fuck - "

With a slow, deep thrust he came, moaning as Sherlock swallowed. Sherlock pulled away, leaning back on his heels, cheeks flushed pleasantly and his own cock straining against the constraint of his jeans. He tried to hide his discomfort with the last part, but John, quicker than Sherlock could ever give him credit for, took Sherlock by the hair and tugged until Sherlock was standing, back against the wall again. Sherlock flushed and tried to put his hands over his lap to hide himself, but John took him by the wrists and pinned his arms above his head.

"Now's the part where I make you beg to come without even touching you," John smirked, then leaned his head forward to suck a hickey along Sherlock's Adam's apple. "Where I tell you all about those nights I would lay awake in bed, listening to you fuck someone else and wishing it was me inside you, pounding you into the mattress, making you moan my name - "

"John," Sherlock managed, hips arching, desperate for any contact or friction he could get. John pulled his body away, smirking.

"Ready to beg yet?"

Sherlock shook his head stubbornly, moaning loudly when John bit his neck again. John licked the bite for a few seconds before continuing.

"When I would touch myself, thinking about you and your beautiful body, thinking about how pretty you look with a cock in your mouth, thinking about stretching you open and feeling every inch of you - "

Sherlock moaned, eyelids fluttering as his cock twitched with need.

"I always used to think what a good little slut you could be for me, Sherlock, how good and obedient you could be, how I could tell Lestrade and your brother and Molly what a good fucktoy you are for me - " 

"Please," Sherlock managed to choke out, hips arching again, his mind blanking for a moment. "John - "

"How much better I could be at fucking you than those other guys, how slow and gentle I could be until it drove you crazy, until I teased and teased you until you begged to be fucked like the whore - "

"John, please," Sherlock gasped, closing his eyes as his body convulsed, hips tightening and arching upward as warm relief flooded his jeans. He leaned back against the wall, breathing hard, descending from oblivion slowly and pulling John into focus.

"Someone's made a mess of himself," John smirked, then kissed him, hard and passionate yet gentle, a mark of ownership, of acceptance. Sherlock shuddered, submitting to it, still trying to catch his breath.

"Burnt the eggs," he managed, to which John chuckled and turned away. Sherlock straightened, knees still a little weak, feeling the come cool in his pants. He flushed, clearing his throat.

"I'm gonna go, erm, shower." 

"Breakfast'll be ready when you get out," John smirked at him, getting new eggs from the fridge. Sherlock nodded slowly, mind hazy as he excused himself to the restroom and stripped.

Sherlock turned the water to the hottest it would go and let the water run over him, his curls clinging to his face as he thought about what had just happened. The kissing, and the sex part of it all - why was John doing this? Suddenly giving Sherlock what he wanted - and why had he said that marrying Mary was a mistake? Was Sherlock a homewrecker? He didn't want to be, even if his feelings for John insisted otherwise.

Sherlock took a moment to stare down at his arms, a twinge of desire running through him at the sight of the fading track marks. His last hit seemed like forever ago. Pushing the thought from his mind, Sherlock finished cleaning himself up and then rejoined John in the kitchen, where fresh breakfast was waiting as promised.


	11. Chapter 11

They laid in bed naked together after eating, sharing gentle, tender kisses, hands exploring each other's bodies slowly and with growing comfort.

"John," Sherlock mumbled, returning John's hungry kisses with his own, arching when John began to trail kisses down Sherlock's body, stopping to suck along Sherlock's nipple.

"John," Sherlock said again, blushing as he arched into the contact. John sucked for another moment or so before moving downward again, nuzzling Sherlock's cock and running his tongue along the shaft. Sherlock gasped and arched yet again, hardening quickly.

"Turn over," John murmured to him. "On your stomach."

Sherlock did as he was told, gasping loudly when he felt John's tongue at his entrance. He let out a soft whimper, cheeks going crimson. "John!"

But John only dug his tongue deeper into Sherlock, listening to Sherlock's crescendo of whimpers and moans. Sherlock buried his face in the pillow beneath his head, his entire body on fire with pleasure. When John pulled away and spoke to him, Sherlock had trouble hearing him, too lost in his own head; John had to repeat himself.

"Do you have a condom and lube?" he asked again, and Sherlock couldn't scramble for them fast enough, turning back over onto his back and spreading his legs eagerly. John laughed a bit, slicked two of his fingers with lube, and then hovered over Sherlock, one hand on the bed beside Sherlock to support himself, the other hand working Sherlock open gently.

"What's funny?" Sherlock managed breathlessly, squirming underneath him.

"We're not in a rush, Sherlock," John murmured into his ear, running his tongue along the long, pale expanse of Sherlock's throat. "But I love how eager you are to please."

Sherlock shuddered, moaning as John slipped another finger into him. "Fuck, John, please - "

"Please what?" John murmured, smirking as he worked Sherlock for a minute before adding another finger.

"Please."

"Say it, Sherlock." John nipped at Sherlock's earlobe. Sherlock flushed red again, his hips matching the rhythm of John's fingers. 

"Please fuck me," he managed, whimpering, and John kissed him slow and hard before removing his fingers and replacing them with himself, pushing into Sherlock slowly and gently.

This type of sex was different than before. Sherlock's breathless moans were interrupted occasionally by John kissing him; the pace was slow and tender, John's hand wrapped around Sherlock's cock, tugging on it in time with the thrusts. When they both came in unison several minutes later, they lay together afterwards, out of breath and soaking in sweat.

"Sherlock - " John began, but was cut off by the sound of the flat's front door opening and a harsh, low voice calling out, "love?"

"Shit!" Sherlock sat up, standing up from the bed and tugging on his pants. He looked at John, panicked. "You have to go."

"What?" John hissed, sitting up as well and picking his clothes up off the floor.

"He can't see you," Sherlock sounded earnest, glancing around desperately before ushering John towards the closet. "Get in here. Please, John, I'm sorry, but he really can't know that you - "  
John was hidden in the closet just as the bedroom door opened. John held his breath, listening; the man was whispering sweet nothings, ignoring Sherlock's whimpers of protest. The bedsprings began squeaking just a few minutes later and John's stomach twisted; it was nothing like what had just transpired. He could hear Sherlock crying, trying to hold back whimpers and yelps of pain; he heard the man mutter something, then the sound of palm hitting face and the bedspring squeaking becoming faster. John felt like he was going to be sick. 

It seemed to last forever and ever, until finally, things went quiet, the room gone still. John inexplicably knew, somehow, that the flat was empty; the man had left and taken Sherlock with him. 

\--

He saw Sherlock again that night, curled up on the couch with a blanket thrown over him, knees pulled to his chest and watching crap telly. He didn't look up as John came in.

"Sherlock - "

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Sherlock, Mary's pregnant."

Sherlock glanced at him and then back to the television, looking unsurprised. "Alright."

"Alright?" John asked. "Sherlock - "

"You've always been an upstanding man, John, you'll do the right thing and go back to her and raise a child with her, convince yourself to love her again." Sherlock picked at a loose thread of the blanket, shrugging. "It's alright, John."

John shook his head. "This doesn't mean I'm just leaving your life, Sherlock. Just because we can't have sex or whatever anymore doesn't mean I'm going to stand by while that douchebag - " 

Sherlock looked up again as a car audibly pulled up to the kerb out front. "You should go."

John stared at him for a few moments before shaking his head, turning and leaving the flat. He passed a man on his way down, the man going up; he had sunken eyes with bags under them, buzz-cut brunette hair whittled into a widow's peak on his forehead, straight, white teeth that flashed John a smile as they passed each other. 

John met the man's gaze evenly, glaring a bit, until the man disappeared into 221B and John was left standing on the staircase, alone. He pretended not to hear Sherlock's scream as he left the building.


	12. Chapter 12

\-- Two weeks later --

John knocked three times on the door of 221B. It was a minute or so before the door opened, revealing Sherlock, lanky as ever, in a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up and sweatpants. He looked like shit again, all the weight he had gained from rehab now gone; his hair desperately needed a cut, there were dark purple bags under his eyes and track marks littering the inside of both his elbows. A large gash on his forehead was crudely stapled shut and oozing. Sherlock squinted at John for a moment.

"You're not take-out."

He went to shut the door, but John was too quick; he stepped inside before Sherlock could shut him out. "Sherlock, we need to talk."

Sherlock glanced upward, up the stairs towards the door of 221B, panic evident in his face for just a second. "You should go, John."

John followed his gaze. "Oh, he's here?"

And before Sherlock could stop him once more, John was taking the stairs two at a time,ignoring Sherlock's protests as he burst into the flat. Sherlock wasn't far behind; the two found James in the kitchen, smirking.

"Bold of you to come bursting in like you own the place, Johnny boy."

"I did used to live here," John muttered nastily, watching as Sherlock went and stood behind the man. The man only smirked wider, turning and grabbing a fistful of Sherlock's curls.

"Just like you used to fuck this stupid whore, right?" 

John watched in horror as the man took Sherlock's head and slammed it into the kitchen counter. Sherlock only whimpered at the violence, but when he pulled his head upright again, the stapled gash had broken open and crimson was pouring down his face. He avoided John's gaze.

"You don't want to make things worse for him, do you, Johnny boy?" the man was snarling now. "Then get the hell out of this flat." 

"Or what?" John hissed, standing his ground with his arms crossed.

"Or I'll make you watch our little session tonight," the man had gone back to smirking, tossing a glance at Sherlock, who stared down at the counter without saying anything. "Have our little whore here put on a show for you as he gets fucked by our clients, hm?"

He reached out and stroked Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock closed his eyes, looking like he might be sick. John found he couldn't look at his former flatmate, opting instead to stare at the floor as he spoke to Sherlock directly.

"I'll be back, okay?"

Sherlock said nothing. John gave the man one last glare before he turned to leave.

"Oh, and Johnny boy," the man called, making John stop at the front door with his hand on the doorknob. "I wouldn't suggest calling dear old Mycroft, not if you want Sherlock to stay alive."  
A shudder ran its course down John's spine. He yanked the door open and left.

John didn't bother knocking when he returned the next day, instead letting himself into the building with his old key. When he got into 221B, it was to find an unlikely guest sitting on the loveseat across from Sherlock; Molly, who looked apologetic as she met his gaze. John looked from her to Sherlock, curled up with the blanket again, eyes trained unseeingly on the television; he was high, no doubt about that - but the gash on his forehead had been cleaned and properly sutured and bandaged, his curls carefully shorn to a manageable length.

"Thanks," John told Molly. "For - you know, taking care of him."

"James is out of town," Molly told him, and Sherlock glared at her, burrowing deeper under his blanket. The silent treatment for John, then.

"There's some food in the kitchen if you want some," Molly said pointedly, standing and heading there herself. John, catching her drift, followed her.

"He won't let me do an exam on the rest of his body," Molly told him immediately, her voice quiet as she put the kettle on. "By the sound of his breathing, he's got a few fractured or cracked ribs, and judging by the blood stains on some of his clothes - "

"Molly," John closed his eyes. Molly looked apologetic again.

"Sorry, right. And he's refusing to take any of his HIV meds."

"And? There's not much I can do about it, Molly."

"He trusts you."

"Trusted," John corrected. "Until I left him."

"I'm sorry, John."

"Anyway," John leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. "I can't do anything about Sherlock, Molly. Not by myself, and that absolute stupid fucking cocksucker said if I went to Mycroft, he'd kill Sherlock." 

"Well we have to figure something out," Molly said, scrunching up her nose. A second later, John realized why; the smell of cooking heroin wafted through the apartment. John made to go into the living room, but Molly grabbed his arm to stop him.

"You'll just worsen things, John. We're in harm reduction and damage control at this point." She tossed a glance towards the living room. "Maybe it would just be best if you left, for now. I'll text you with updates, okay?" 

John nodded slowly, too tired to argue with her. When he moved his way through the living room, he and Sherlock said nothing to each other as John left.


	13. Chapter 13

\- A month later -

Panic rose in John's chest as he ran about 221B, finding every room and corner empty of either Sherlock or James. Molly hadn't heard from the former in two weeks; John knew, inexplicably, that something was really, really wrong.

When the search of the entire flat came up empty, John threw the hood of his jacket up against the rain and made his way down to the condemned house on Westminster street. He shoved his way past the doorkeeper and up the stairs, throwing open the door to the bedroom only to find Seb on the bed, a naked girl riding him. 

"Come on," John muttered, looking to the wall. Seb sighed loudly.

"Whaddaya want, mate?"

"I need to know where Sherlock is."

"Have you tried the whorehouse on Seventh?"

John let out an annoyed sigh. 

"If he's not there, he's likely at that bloke James' place. You know, out on Abernathy street - uh, I think the address is 284." 

"Thanks," John muttered, turning and leaving. He had checked the whorehouse last night, after his initial look for Sherlock at Baker Street had turned up empty; he had double-checked the flat this morning in case Sherlock had returned, but still no sight of him. John began his way towards Abernathy street.

\--

James answered the door, smiling at the sight of John. "How can I help you, Johnny boy?"

"You have Sherlock," John's voice was cold. "I want him."

"That's gonna cost you," James replied, cigarette hanging out of his mouth. "250 for a go at him, double that if you want to buy him for good." 

John arched an eyebrow. "Oh, he's for sale now?"

"Losing his use to me," James smirked. "Getting older, getting sicker. Not as attractive as he used to be, not bringing in so many customers."

"An even five hundred, then?" John dug around in his pockets, pulling out pound notes. All he had was three hundred. He pulled out 250 and handed it to James, then let himself be led to the basement door. His stomach churned.

"You get three hours," James told him, smirking and opening the door for him. He closed the door again as John descended the stairs. The room was large and pitch black; John managed to make out a singular chain hanging from the ceiling and tugged on it, flooding the room in dim light. He had to bite back a gasp. 

The room was made of concrete, a large wooden chest pushed against the middle of one wall. In the corner was a bare mattress with a naked Sherlock on it; he was so thin you could see each rib, his body covered in bruises and gashes, the mattress stained red with blood from forceful intercourse. He was shackled to the wall by a chain, his left eye so swollen John doubted he could see out of it. When John approached and touched him on the shoulder Sherlock yanked away, lashing out, his hand narrowly missing John's face. He writhed around in panic, trying his best to put as much distance between himself and John as possible, eyes wide as he stared at John without registering who he was. 

"Sherlock, Sherlock - " John didn't bother to keep his voice down as he shouted Sherlock's name, sure that the concrete room was soundproof. "Sherlock, it's me, it's John."  
Sherlock wouldn't or couldn't listen, however; he scrambled towards the wall and curled up there, breathing heavily like a scared, wounded animal. John pulled his mobile from his pocket and sent a two-worded text: "284 Abernathy."


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock bit three nurses between intake and transferement to his own private room. When they wheeled the bed into the room, Sherlock curled up on his side, staring at the wall, silent and immobile. John stood outside the room with Lestrade, staring in occasionally; Mycroft sat at Sherlock's bedside, talking, hoping to get any sort of response from his little brother. After a few hours of this, Mycroft stood, joining them outside the room and shutting the door behind him. Anthea appeared, at the ready to receive orders.

"I want James Moriarty dead," Mycroft told her, his voice emotionless. "Immediately."

"Wait, wait," Lestrade shook his head. "You can't just - " 

"This is a family matter, Greg," Mycroft hissed, and it was impossible to miss the look of hurt on Lestrade's face. "We can't afford for your boys at the Yard to botch this up and let this man go free. I'm dealing with it my way. If you don't like it, arrest me." 

When Lestrade only stared at him, Mycroft nodded and swept down the hall. After a moment, Lestrade followed him. Anthea had disappeared again. John remained where he was, staring into the room, watching Sherlock lay stationery and silent, not moving, but not sleeping either.

\--

"Mary cheated on me," John told Sherlock's stationary figure. Sherlock only continued to stare at him in silence, blinking occasionally. John continued.

"Some bloke named Liam. Got her pregnant, even. Baby's not mine." 

More staring. John looked away.

"I think I'm actually happy about it. You know? Gives us a chance for...well, you know."

"I'd like that." 

John looked up, startled. It was the first time Sherlock had spoken in the week and a half since he'd been admitted to the hospital. Now it was John's turn to stare at him.

"Yeah?" 

Sherlock nodded slowly and quietly as the nurse came in.

"Time to change your bag," she said. Sherlock turned from his side onto his back, pulling up his gown. John looked away.

"I can go if - "

"You can stay," Sherlock mumbled, not looking anywhere but the ceiling as the nurse began to change his ileostomy bag. John nodded to himself, staring down at his feet as the nurse changed the bag and then left again.

"Sorry," John murmured.

"It's fine," Sherlock said, still staring at the ceiling. "I've got to get used to it." 

"I know," John nodded quietly. The room was plunged into silence.

"I love you," John told him. Sherlock visibly cringed.

"Too much right now, John." 

"Okay," John said softly. Sherlock closed his eyes.

They stayed like that for a long while, sitting together in the silence, until soft snoring let John know that Sherlock was asleep again. He sighed and opened his book.

He visited Sherlock every day, even when Sherlock was transferred to the psych ward. When it was time for Sherlock to be discharged, John moved back into Baker Street. 

"Welcome home," he said as they stepped inside. Molly had gotten a banner and a cake, both reading 'welcome home Sherlock'. Sherlock ignored them as he stepped inside, settling in on his usual spot on the couch. John went into the kitchen to make tea.

"You hungry?" John asked him, bringing him his tea. Sherlock shook his head silently, setting the tea on the coffee table without taking a drink. John watched him for a moment, then took a seat in his own chair. Sherlock turned on the television, watching it unseeingly.

"Are you okay?" John asked him after a few moments of silence. Sherlock nodded mutely, not looking at him. John couldn't help the gnawing feeling of worry in his chest; this was so unlike the Sherlock he knew from even just a few months ago. 

And so Sherlock was, moping around the flat in old hoodies and sweatpants, barely eating and barely sleeping. John would come downstairs in the middle of the night - they still slept in separate beds - to find Sherlock at the window overlooking Baker Street, chain smoking.

"Come on love," John said after a week of this, taking Sherlock by the hand. Sherlock let himself be led back to the bedroom, where John put him to bed and then laid out beside him. Sherlock stared at him quietly, not saying anything for a moment, then burrowed closer; he put his head on John's chest and got as close as possible. He slung a possessive arm around John's middle and was asleep in minutes. John let his hand card through Sherlock's hair, breathing in the other's scent of pine, cigarette smoke and fresh ink. He thought about what a wild rollercoaster the past few months had been, from finding out about Sherlock;s shitty boyfriend to discovering Sherlock felt the same way. Had felt the same way, all these months and years. John thought about all the time that had been wasted. He combed his fingers through Sherlock's hair, closing his eyes. He was asleep in minutes as well.

When he woke up it was to find himself alone. He pushed down the panic rising in his chest and got up, checking first the bathroom, then the living room, then the kitchen. It was the last place that he found Sherlock, standing out the counter with a plateful of cake, shoveling it into his mouth with a fork. He looked up as John came in. It was the first thing John had seen Sherlock eat since coming home from the hospital. He looked pretty adorable, with chocolate smeared around the outside of his lip just a bit. He paused when John walked into the kitchen.

"Is this okay?" he asked quietly, making John's heart break. John nodded quickly.

"It's more than okay, Sherlock. Please, eat it before it goes stale."

Sherlock nodded and continued eating. John went about making tea, careful to move slow and quietly so as not to spook Sherlock. Sherlock finished his cake, wiped his mouth and put his plate in the sink before retreating to the living room. John couldn't help but let himself smile a bit; Sherlock, though still too quiet (an after effect, John knew, of receiving beatings for making too much noise), was at least starting to return to his normal self, bit by bit. Sherlock turned on trash telly.

John brought him his tea and they sat together in the living room silently, comfortable with each other.

\--

John's eyes fluttered open and, seeing the shadowy figure standing in the doorway of his bedroom, he jumped a bit. Sherlock, silhouetted by the hallway light, stared at him, waiting silently for permission. John moved over, patting the empty space of bed beside him.

"Come on."

Sherlock walked in, folding himself into the space beside John silently. He stared at John; John, eager to get back to sleep, closed his eyes. He could hear Sherlock breathing beside him, slow and deliberate; after a moment, he felt Sherlock's hand slip into his.

"I love you," he heard Sherlock murmur through his haze of sleepiness. 

He had to fight not to smile, not to let Sherlock know that he had heard. After a few moments of silence, Sherlock laid his head on John's shoulder and fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! If you enjoy this fic or any of the others I've posted here on AO3, please consider buying me a coffee:
> 
> http://www.ko-fi.com/oliverkamber
> 
> I'm in a bit of a hard place at the moment and even the smallest donation could help!


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